


with golden string

by ushiwakaaa



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Development, Coming of Age, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, Romance, Slice of Life, a look into sakuatsu and how they came to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29188200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ushiwakaaa/pseuds/ushiwakaaa
Summary: In which Atsumu has always dreamed about the stars.Or, a story centered around Miya Atsumu and his journey with family, volleyball, love, and himself.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	1. Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the early childhood of Miya Atsumu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who knew my first haikyuu fic would be a sakuatsu one?
> 
> anyways, hope y’all enjoy :^)

_“It is better to love wisely, no doubt: but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all.”_

— _Vanity Fair_ by William Makepeace Thackeray

* * *

It is a cold winter evening, and the twins are huddled up against their mother. The covers are pulled up to their chests, and Atsumu has his cheek pressed against his mother’s shoulder. Osamu flanks her other side, head bobbing as sleep threatens to take him.

In their mother’s lap is a children’s book that she’s read to them a hundred times over. She encourages them to choose another story—as this book’s edges have become creased and frayed—but the twins insist she read them this one in particular, and their mother has always been weak to their pouting faces.

Outside, the blizzard shakes the old house and rattles the windows. The wind is sharp and unforgiving. Atsumu scoots a little closer to his mother as a particularly nasty gust of wind makes the entire house tremble.

The action doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Are ya scared, Atsumu?” his mother asks, a laugh on her tongue. Atsumu looks up at her. The yellow light from the lamp dimly illuminating the room softens her face—it makes her look much younger than she is, masking away any wrinkles or blemishes. Atsumu is proud to say that he got her eyes. They always shine so bright.

“He definitely is,” Osamu says, mouth parting around a yawn. He smashes the heel of his palm into his eye as if to wipe away the sleepiness.

“I am _not,_ ‘Samu!” Atsumu grumbles, lifting his head to properly glare at his brother.

“It’s ‘cuz he’s a wuss.”

“Osamu, don’t call yer brother that. It isn’t nice,” their mother scolds lightly, leaning further back against the headboard. She sighs, but it doesn’t sound frustrated or tired. If Atsumu looks close enough, he can see the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Yeah, ‘Samu. It isn’t nice,” Atsumu mocks, which earns him a weak glare from Osamu.

His brother opens his mouth to retort, but their mother beats them to it.

“That’s enough, you two.” And her tone is more than enough to mark the end of their bickering. They both settle back against her body, turning their attention back to the story. Their mother clears her throat. “Now I’ve forgotten where I left off thanks to you two knuckleheads.”

The twins mumble out a low “sorry” and Osamu tells her where to continue reading. As she reads aloud, Atsumu is quiet, letting the serene sound of her voice—her voice, which must be spun from silk—calm him. He thinks his mother could quell a storm if she really wanted to.

As they delve further into the story—the one story that makes Atsumu’s chest tingle and breath hitch—Osamu eventually falls asleep, leaving just Atsumu and his mother awake in the room. She sets the book down in her lap to smooth out her younger son’s hair, whispering a soft “goodnight.”

Gentle snores fill the silence, and Atsumu can’t stand silence, so he breaks it. “Hey, Ma?”

“What it is, Atsumu?”

Atsumu chews his lip. “Do you think ‘Samu and I will find someone who gives us a star? Like in the book,” he asks, hazel eyes staring up at her in curiosity.

His mother smiles and puts a hand overtop of his. “Well, I don’t see why not. I’m sure there’s gotta be _someone_ out there willin’ to—even though yer a little gremlin.”

“I’m not!” Atsumu blurts, and his mother shushes him immediately. He lowers his voice. “If I’m a gremlin, then ‘Samu must be a troll, or somethin’.”

“Why do ya say that?”

“‘Cuz he’s ugly. And dumb.”

His mother raises an eyebrow. “You’ve both got the same face, though.”

Atsumu sits up a little. “But I’ve got your eyes! That makes me more handsome.”

Humming, his mother caresses the back of his hand with her thumb. “How so?” she asks.

“‘Cuz they’re from you,” Atsumu says simply, staring at her in bewilderment, as if she’d just asked him an absurd question.

He must’ve said something right, because her smile gets wider—her teeth peak out from behind her lips. “Well, I’m flattered, Atsumu. Lotsa people don’t usually find beauty in eyes like ours,” she says.

And Atsumu doesn’t understand what she means by that. Their eyes are the same shade as freshly-brewed tea. His mother’s eyes are soft and bright and safe. He wonders, briefly, if people think the same of his own pair.

“Ma?”

“Hmm?”

“When Pops left, did he take the star he gave you with him, too?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could take them back. Because his mother goes stiff. The thumb on the back of his hand stops moving. Atsumu watches her closely, heart dropping to the soles of his feet when he sees that faraway look cloud her eyes—the one that turns the pools of freshly-brewed tea sour and weak.

Atsumu holds his breath. He says nothing. Neither does his mother.

Then, after a while, she says, “Let’s get you two to bed. This angle isn’t good for Osamu’s neck.”

When Atsumu climbs the ladder to reach the top bunk that night, he nearly slips and falls off the rungs. Osamu calls him some variation of an insult that he ignores because Atsumu can’t seem to think of anything else other than the distant look on his mother’s face. He wants to apologize, but isn’t sure how to. He isn’t sure what he even did wrong.

He collapses onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling, glow-in-the-dark stars fastened against the smooth white plaster. The stars almost seem to mock him in a way, so he turns to lay on his side instead.

Atsumu closes his eyes, dreaming of the day someone finally gives him a star.

* * *

A week later, the snow had melted, and the twins decided to take up volleyball. Osamu had pointed out a flyer for a volleyball workshop located in the school’s gymnasium, taped above a water fountain. Atsumu had scrunched his nose up, doubtful he’d find the sport interesting.

When the twins walk into the gymnasium where the workshop takes place just a few days later, Atsumu isn’t too impressed. The sounds of rubber squeaking against polished wood and balls slamming against the floors make him want to turn around and leave. Plus, it stinks like sweat.

Just as he’s about to do so, Osamu grabs him by the elbow and guides him further into the gymnasium. Atsumu grumbles something unintelligible, swatting his brother’s hand away. He glances at the center-most court, where an intense game of volleyball is being played.

One of the players jumps into the air, arms stretched high above his head as if to touch the sky itself. His fingertips make contact with the ball for just a second before it flies into the field of another player, who jumps just in time to hit it viciously over the net. They score a point.

Atsumu stands there, stunned. He can’t seem to get his jaw to close.

“Hey, ‘Samu.”

“What?”

“I think we should play volleyball.”

Atsumu is too busy staring at what he’ll soon learn is a setter to see the smirk on Osamu’s face.

* * *

“Aran, can I ask you a question?”

“You just did, though.”

Atsumu pouts, switching hands to stretch out his other leg. They’re sat on the gymnasium floor, stretching their muscles before practice. It’s been a few months since the twins decided to officially join the club.

“Do you believe that...that someone’ll give you a star one day?” he asks, cheeks burning red. He stares at the floor as he waits for his friend’s response.

“Huh?” Aran says.

“It’s from a book!” Atsumu sputters. “Apparently, some day, someone’ll pull a star from the sky for you if they really, really like you.”

Aran’s face twists. “Why would I want a star? Aren’t they, like, super hot? I’d get burned.”

“Well, you’re no fun at all,” Atsumu mutters, his face still hot. “Stars are the brightest things in the whole world! If someone gives you one, that must mean they really like you.”

“Sounds stupid to me.”

“Ugh, you don’t get it!”

“Osamu would probably agree with me.”

Atsumu seethes in silence. He won’t tell Aran that he’s right.

When the school day finally ends, the twins begin their walk back home. It’s a cool spring day, and the breeze is just right, which is especially nice after volleyball practice. Atsumu adjusts the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder.

“What are you and Ma making for dinner?”

“Dunno.”

“Liar. You always know.”

Osamu glances at him. “Maybe you would too, if you ever helped us,” he says.

“I’m not good at cooking,” Atsumu grumbles.

“You’re not good at a lot of things, ‘Tsumu.”

“Shut up, ‘Samu.”

“I’m telling Ma you said a curse word,” Osamu drawls.

Atsumu bumps his shoulder into his brother, sending him stumbling to the side. “No, you won’t!”

Osamu recollects himself, looking mildly irritated. “Now I definitely will.”

Atsumu glares, gripping the straps of his backpack in each fist. “You’re so annoying,” he says simply.

“You’re more annoying than I am. Ma thinks so, too.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Yes, she does.”

“I’ll fart on your pillow tonight,” Atsumu swears, scowling straight ahead.

“I hope you fall off the top bunk,” he retorts, and Atsumu shoves him, so Osamu shoves him back, and soon enough their walk back home is put on pause, interrupted by a shoving contest. Onlookers walk by, rolling their eyes and sneering in their direction.

“You’re both late,” their mother grunts when they finally make it home. The twins quietly apologize, slipping their shoes off at the door.

“It was ‘Tsumu’s fault,” Osamu leers.

Atsumu whips his head to face his brother. “Liar!” he hisses.

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” their mother snaps, flicking them both on the forehead. “Go wash up. You two stink.”

Atsumu cradles his stinging forehead, grumbling to himself until he gets into the shower.

* * *

Osamu turns in first after dinner, and for once Atsumu volunteers to help his mother with the dishes.

“This is new,” his mother teases. They’re standing side-by-side at the sink, with Atsumu standing on a stool—he hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet, he insists. She washes while he dries.

Atsumu’s shoulders bunch up to his ears. “I’m useful, too,” he says.

“I know, sweetheart.” She passes him a plate to dry. “How was school?”

“Boring. ‘Samu fell asleep during history.”

“Hmm. What about volleyball practice?”

At this question, Atsumu’s eyes light up. He stands a little straighter. “Coach says I’m getting better at setting! He told me I’m a fast learner,” he boasts.

“Hopefully all those compliments won’t give ya a big head.” She laughs, and her face is like the sun. Brighter than any other star out there.

Atsumu pretends to be offended, but in truth, he’d do anything to hear her laugh like that.

As they continue to do the dishes, a comfortable air of quiet settles between the two of them. Atsumu is driven to finish his task, making sure the plates and cups and utensils are completely clean before putting them away.

“So,” his mother starts, breaking the silence, “what’s on yer mind?”

“Huh?”

“You wanted us to be alone, right? What’s so important that ya don’t want Osamu hearin’, hmm?”

Atsumu gulps, squeezing the dry plate and damp washcloth that are in his hands. He sets them both down and turns to face her. Sensing the serious atmosphere, his mother shuts off the tap.

“Atsumu? What’s wrong, honey?”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” he blurts, aching to get this off his chest. “For bringing up Pops like that.”

His mother’s expression is one of pure shock before it shifts into something softer. She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Don’t ya worry about that. There’s nothin’ for you to apologize for,” she says.

“But you looked sad after I said it…”

She sighs and dries her hands off with a spare rag. Atsumu can’t look at her, so he looks at the soap bubbles in the sink instead. Then a gentle hand tucks a lock of brown hair behind his ear before stopping to rest at his nape.

“I think a part of me will always be sad that yer pops left us,” his mother admits. “But that’s normal. Sometimes people leave and there’s nothin’ that you can do but let ‘em.”

Atsumu bites his lip, not quite understanding any of what she’s telling him. But the soothing weight of her hand on his neck keeps him from getting frustrated. She smells like honey and lavender.

“That’s dumb,” Atsumu replies, not knowing what else to say.

“Maybe,” his mother hums. “But maybe not.”

Atsumu scrunches his face up. “Grown-ups are confusing.”

She laughs again, and the sound makes his chest warm. He loves her.

“I’ll finish up here. Yer brother’s probably wonderin’ why you’re takin’ so long.”

She kisses his forehead and sends him to bed. As Atsumu is brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, he can’t help but notice that his chest feels ten times lighter.

When he creaks the door open to the bedroom he shared with Osamu, he finds that his brother is already asleep, an arm hanging off the edge of the bed. Atsumu snorts and climbs the ladder up to his bunk, deciding not to fart on Osamu’s pillow after all.

The mattress squeaks under his weight, drawing a response from below.

“‘Tsumu?” Osamu groans, voice groggy and thick with sleep.

“What?”

“What did you talk about with Ma?”

Atsumu stares up at the glow-in-the-dark stars. One is losing its stickiness, hanging on by a thread. “Just school,” he says. “And volleyball.”

He doesn’t know why he lies, but it rolls off his tongue like water. Osamu seems to buy it, though, and he grunts in reply. Atsumu hears shuffling beneath him—probably Osamu finding a better position to sleep in. The shuffling stops, and it’s quiet.

Atsumu sighs, and sleep takes him easily.

* * *

The day the twins finish elementary school, their mother takes them out for ice cream. It is spring, and the cherry blossom trees are at full bloom. Osamu and Atsumu are covered in their petals, littering their mother’s car with little pink shells. Atsumu tries to pick them out of his hair, but it’s hard without a mirror. Not to mention Osamu not being much help.

“Are ya boys ready for junior high?” their mother asks, glancing at them through the side-view mirror. She pulls out of the school parking lot and begins their drive to the ice cream shop just a few blocks away.

“I’m ready to join the volleyball club!” Atsumu exclaims from the backseat. “I heard it’s harder when you’re in junior high.”

“It’s super hard, I heard,” Osamu chimes in. There are cherry blossom petals stuck in his hair, too.

“That boy, Aran. Will he be playing with you both, too?”

“Yup,” the twins answer in unison.

“He wants to be the ace one day,” Atsumu supplies. Then he grins. “And I’ll be his setter for sure.”

“Coach said I might be a better setter than you, though,” Osamu says.

Atsumu scowls at him. “No way. Your sets suck. I can barely hit ‘em.”

“That’s _your_ fault, then.”

“It’s _yours_ —”

The car comes to a stop. “We’re here!” their mother sings, bringing whatever argument they were about to have to an abrupt end.

She helps them get all the cherry blossom petals out of their hair and clothes before they all walk inside. When they reach the counter, Atsumu tells her he wants cookie dough. Osamu opts for mint chocolate chip. Two scoops for both of them, atop a waffle cone. Their mother chooses a single scoop of lemon sorbet for herself—in a cup, because the cones are too sweet for her.

The twins insist on sitting outside, and she relents, letting them choose a table. They eat their ice cream, little legs swinging back and forth. The wind comes by in a gentle breeze. Atsumu smiles to himself; he wishes moments like these could last forever.

Two people walk past their table, and Atsumu stares at their proximity. He stares at their linked hands, at the way their shoulders touch as they walk. They’re adults, he notices, tall and mature and wearing really nice clothes.

Atsumu also notices that they’re both men, which is shocking, to say the least. All of the couples he’s seen on TV and in movies have always been a girl and a boy.

The couple laughs as they walk by, talking amongst themselves without a care in the world—without a care to whomever might be watching. Osamu looks up to stare at them, too, his mouth sticky with ice cream.

“Boys,” their mother interrupts, and a shiver runs down Atsumu’s spine at her steely tone. She only ever talks to them like this when she’s really, really mad. “Don’t look at that.”

Atsumu blinks. “Why can’t we?”

She clenches her jaw, stabbing her sorbet with her plastic spoon. “It’s—it’s _unnatural_ ,” she says, lowly, so that only the twins could hear. “Boys should only be with girls, and vice versa.”

“But they looked happy,” Osamu says quietly, staring down at his unfinished cone. The ice cream has begun to melt, drops of bright green dripping down his fingers.

Their mother sighs, clearly upset, and sets her cup down. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Atsumu stays quiet even though there are a million questions racing around in his head. He doesn’t like it when Ma gets all serious like this. He doesn’t like it when she sounds so unlike herself.

So he stays quiet, and so does Osamu. They finish their ice cream in a tense silence, ruined so easily by a pair of strangers.

Atsumu can’t help but think about them as they climb back inside the car and drive home.

* * *

Spring break goes by fast enough. They all went on a family trip to the beach, where the twins tried to teach their mother volleyball. Atsumu laughed at her inability to receive the ball, while Osamu laughed at her failed attempts at serving. The day at the ice cream shop was quickly forgotten.

Now, with the new school year coming up in just a few days, Atsumu has to prepare himself for what’s to come. Ma gave him and Osamu each a phone—deemed they were old enough for one—and Atsumu hunted Aran down for his contact information.

To: Ojiro Aran, 1:34 pm

_The school uniforms look cool!!!_

Aran texts back just a few minutes later.

From: Ojiro Aran, 1:37 pm

_They’re the standard uniform?_

To: Ojiro Aran, 1:37 pm

_Still cool._

_Are you ready for volleyball?_

Atsumu shifts from where he’s seated at his desk, having given up on the summer homework he was assigned.

From: Ojiro Aran, 1:38 pm

_Obviously. Are you?_

The bedroom door creaks open, familiar footsteps padding along the floor as the person comes inside. Osamu hurls himself on a beanbag near the dresser.

“Who are you texting?” he asks.

“Aran—who else?”

“Sorry. Forgot you don’t have any other friends.”

Atsumu puts his phone down and swivels around in his chair. “I have _plenty_ of friends! So many I can't even name them all,” he exclaims, defensive.

Osamu pulls his own phone out, looking bored. “Sure you do. Did you finish the summer assignment yet?”

Atsumu decides to text Aran back later. He turns off his phone and sinks back into his chair. “Nope.”

“It’s due in four days.”

“I know that.”

“...”

“Don’t look at me like that, ‘Samu. I’ll punch you,” Atsumu warns.

“Ma says lunch will be ready in thirty,” Osamu informs.

“What’re we eating?”

“Food, obviously.”

Atsumu glares. “Why can you never answer the question, huh?”

Osamu shrugs, then looks back at his phone. Atsumu huffs, coming to a stand. An idea pops up in his head, and, without really thinking it through, he runs over and jumps on top of his brother, crushing him beneath his weight.

“Ugh!” Osamu grunts as he struggles beneath Atsumu’s body. His phone slips from his hand. They shove and smack and punch and scratch at each other, tumbling onto the floor. Atsumu wrestles blindly, trying to pin Osamu to the floor.

Osamu ends up putting him in a chokehold, which he quickly surrenders under. His brother lets go and they both collapse, chests rising and falling as they catch their breath. Atsumu is sore from where Osamu socked him in the arm, but he landed a solid one to his stomach—which is better, in his opinion.

“You’re exhausting, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu says when he catches his breath.

“Shut your trap,” Atsumu grumbles back, too tired to come up with anything better.

“Onigiri.”

Atsumu blinks, confused at first. Then he scoffs. “Was that so hard to say?”

“Yup.”

The older brother—older by just twelve minutes, Osamu reminds—pushes himself off the floor, wiping the thin sheet of sweat from the back of his neck with a hand.

“I’m hungry, ‘Samu,” he says.

Osamu sits up, too. “Ma will call us when the food’s ready.”

“Not _that_ kind of hungry.”

They lock eyes, having a conversation without words.

Osamu adjusts the collar of his shirt. “Me too.”

“I’ll definitely be the team setter,” Atsumu declares suddenly, rising to his feet. “And I’ll definitely turn Aran into an ace.”

And maybe Aran will give him a star in return.

* * *

“Ma, did you buy something?”

It’s the night before the first day of school, and their mother has some kind of package in her hand.

“Sure did,” she says. “Come open it, both of ya.”

The twins scramble to open the small package, and there’s nothing graceful about the way they open it. Atsumu gasps when he sees what’s inside.

“The old ones are falling off, so I figured ya needed new ones.”

In a plastic pouch, a new set of glow-in-the-dark stars. Except it’s not just stars, but the moon, sun, and planets, too. Osamu and Atsumu share an excited look.

Their mother makes her way to the ladder of the bunk bed. “C’mon. I’ll help y’all put them up,” she says, and the rest of the night is spent arranging the little pieces of glowing plastic.

They all lay back on Atsumu’s bed when they finish. It’s a tight squeeze, but they manage. This close to her, Atsumu can feel the hard beat of his mother’s heart. Strong and steady, just like the rest of her.

“Looks just like the real thing,” she quips, and Atsumu can feel her smiling. He smiles, too, and so does Osamu, even though he can’t see it through the darkness. “You boys better behave yourselves tomorrow. No foolin’ around. I wanna see better grades on your report cards. We clear?”

“Yes,” the twins mutter, not too excited about all the tests and quizzes that are to come.

“I didn’t hear ya!”

“Yes!”

“Good. Now I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

“‘Night, Ma.”

She and Osamu descend the ladder, and Atsumu is left to stare at the newfound solar system above him.

* * *

He and Osamu sit through the entrance ceremony the next morning, the gymnasium packed with kids. They’re wearing their new, sleek uniforms, contributing to the sea of black that fills the room. Atsumu tries to look for Aran in the crowd, but there are so many students he can’t find him.

“This is so boring,” Osamu whispers from beside him.

“It’s always boring,” Atsumu whispers back.

“You think we’ll get a good homeroom teacher?”

“Hopefully.”

“What’s her name again?”

Atsumu tries to think of it. “No clue.”

“You’re useless,” Osamu hisses.

“So are _you_ , scrub!”

They freeze when a teacher scowls in their direction, placing their attention back to the principal on stage, who’s blabbering about the new school year. His head is completely free of hair, and Atsumu can’t help but notice how shiny it looks beneath the stage lights.

He presses his lips into a line so as to not laugh, but a small sound escapes him. It draws Osamu’s attention, and they hold a conversation without speaking. Atsumu darts his eyes over to the stage, to the principal, and Osamu follows.

They both squirm in their seats, trying not to burst out into laughter.

The same teacher from before glares once more in their direction, and Atsumu punches his brother to quiet him. Their section is called to bow, and they rise and do so. Staff members begin to hand out papers, and the entrance ceremony draws to a close.

The gymnasium empties out section by section, a sea of students filing out of the large double-doors. Atsumu gets on his toes to see over the crowd, eyes scanning until they fall on a familiar shaved head.

“Aran!” Atsumu yells, waving his arm around. Students and staff alike turn to sneer at him, but he doesn’t care. Neither does Osamu.

“Aran!” Osamu calls, sticking his hand in the air as well and waving it around like a madman. Aran flinches, giving them a look over his shoulder, before turning back around.

“What a scrub,” Atsumu scoffs, letting his arm fall. “He definitely heard us.”

“I guess he’s embarrassed, or something.”

“Huh? No way. We’re super cool.”

“Hey, Aran is in the grade above us, right?”

Osamu nods.

Atsumu grins and says, “We should ask him to show us around.”

His twin gives him the same grin in return.

* * *

The first day of class is always boring. Simple introductions without much instruction time—the hours tick away quickly, and before Atsumu knows it, it’s time for lunch. He and Osamu sit at the same desk and unwrap the bentos Ma made for them with Osamu’s help.

Atsumu lifts the lid off his bento. “Woah! It looks crazy,” he exclaims.

Osamu is already digging in. “Ma wanted to make ‘em special ‘cuz it’s our first day and all,” he says, around a mouthful of food.

The older brother picks up a piece of fatty tuna with his chopsticks, mouth already watering at the sight. He stuffs the morsel in his mouth, chewing happily. They eat well, having sips of milk in between.

“What do you think the volleyball team here is like?” Atsumu asks after he finishes his meal. There’s just a few minutes left in their lunch break.

Osamu wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aran said they aren’t bad. Nowhere _near_ amazing, but not bad.”

Atsumu hums, looking at the clock hung up on the wall. Only a handful of hours left. Only a handful of hours, and gets to return to his paradise. “I’ll be really disappointed if they’re a bunch of scrubs,” he tsks.

“You calling Aran a scrub, scrub?”

“What? No way! Aran’s good at the game—I know that for sure.”

Osamu takes another sip of milk. “He has to be, if he wants to be the ace,” he comments.

The bell signaling the end of lunch rings.

* * *

“Well, that was terrible.”

Atsumu kicks at a pebble as they walk down the street. There are three of them this time, with Aran at the far left.

“I never said we were good,” Aran says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I just said we weren’t bad.”

“You guys are _terrible!_ ” Atsumu exclaims, pulling at his hair. “Less than half the team can receive properly.”

“Yako Junior High isn’t exactly known for its volleyball team, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu informs, biting into a popsicle he bought from the convenience store.

“I’m still disappointed,” Atsumu barks, hunching over. Above them, the sky is a smear of pink, orange, and yellow.

“Luckily, we have all year to improve,” Aran says sagely, looking out at the sunset. “We shouldn’t rush it.”

“Listen to the teenager,” Osamu says, looking at his brother. “He has a whole year’s worth of wisdom over us.”

“Don’t you have any friends your own age, Aran?” Atsumu leers.

Aran presses his lips into a line, scowling at him. “I never see you two hang out with anyone else but me. And each other,” he drawls.

“So?” Atsumu says. “We don’t need anyone else. Right, ‘Samu?”

Osamu licks his lips, dyed a bright blue from the popsicle. “Hmm. Well, some new company would be nice. ‘Tsumu can be a pain sometimes.”

“Hey!”

“By the way, Aran,” Osamu starts. “Didja wanna come over for dinner? Ma says it’s alright.”

Atsumu blinks and awaits for the other boy’s answer. He wasn’t told this.

“Ah, not today. My folks expect me home on time—especially since it’s the first day.” He gives them an apologetic smile.

Osamu hums, but Atsumu says, “Ma wanted him over for dinner?”

“Yup.”

“When?”

“Just now. She texted me.”

Atsumu shoves his hand into his pocket to fetch his phone. When he unlocks it, he sees a wall full of notifications—unread texts from his mother.

“Aw, crap. Ma’s gonna kill me.”

“Yeah, she told me that, too.”

When the trio has to part ways, Aran promises to come over sometime within the month, and Atsumu makes him hook a pinky around his own just in case. The rest of the wall home is quiet, peaceful, even, and it takes Atsumu’s mind off the disappointment he felt when he saw what his new volleyball team was capable of.

Ma opens the door with energy, practically ushering them inside. As they’re slipping off their shoes, she asks, “Well? How was it? Didja both have fun?”

Osamu says, “I guess it was fine.”

At the same time, Atsumu says, “It was terrible.”

Their mother makes a face, then urges them to sit at the table. Well, for Atsumu to sit at the table. Osamu rolls his sleeves up and goes to the sink to wash his hands, intent on helping with dinner.

“Give me the details,” Ma says, reaching inside the fridge to fetch a few vegetables for Osamu to chop up.

And Atsumu does, tells her about the bald principal, about their boring homeroom teacher, and the volleyball team.

“They suck,” he deadpans, gripping the edge of the table. “Like, really bad. Except for Aran, though.”

Osamu begins slicing the vegetables into chunks while Ma brings a pot of water and stock to boil. “It’s true,” Osamu says. “Their serves are at the kindergarten level.”

“Sounds like to me you both are just bein’ mean,” their mother sighs. “Not everyone can be as good as the both of you.”

“But they can’t even hit my tosses! And my tosses are _awesome!_ ” Atsumu exclaims, gesturing wildly.

Ma snorts. “If they’re so awesome, then anyone should be able to hit ‘em, right?”

Atsumu sputters while Osamu bursts out laughing, the scrub. Atsumu hates him.

* * *

The weeks fly by, a hectic combination of schoolwork, practice, and chores. Any free time he gets, Atsumu is sure to spend it practicing volleyball, whether it be his serves or tosses or anything else. He wants to get better. He _has_ to get better.

And so at night, when Osamu and Ma are asleep, Atsumu sneaks out to their small backyard and practices. He tosses the ball into the air, bouncing it on the tips of his fingers. Sometimes he’ll throw it against the wall and practice his receives until his forearms are bright red and aching.

Their first practice game is coming up within the next month. Their opponents aren’t necessarily _strong_ , but if the Yako volleyball club wants to prove their strength, then they need to perform well. Practice game or not.

Atsumu sticks his tongue out in concentration. Sweat rolls down his temples and neck. He doesn’t know how long he stays outside, but by the end of it he’s pretty exhausted. Atsumu sneaks back inside, tucks the volleyball away under his desk, and crawls back into bed, sweaty and panting and tired.

He gazes up at his very own solar system—the one he, Osamu, and Ma put together—and silently promises to improve no matter what.

Miya Atsumu _would_ become the greatest setter in Japan.

* * *

Atsumu has had his share of bad days. Days where nothing seems to go right, where the universe is completely against him. Those days make his blood boil—they irritate and frustrate him to no end. Even Osamu gets fed up when Atsumu has bad days, and Osamu is quite tolerant of his mood swings.

Today is one of those days.

They’re in the middle of a practice match against a rival school. The twins are on the court, of course, with Aran by their side. Collectively, the trio is good at the sport.

The rest of the team, however…

Atsumu tosses the ball to one of the spikers, his back bending in a perfect arch, and his teammate fails to hit it. The teammate’s hand meets air and the ball falls to the ground. A whistle is blown and the opposing team scores a point.

The older Miya twin grinds his teeth into dust.

An elbow smashes into his ribs. “Calm down, ‘Tsumu. You’re stinkin’ up the whole room,” Osamu says, glaring.

“Shut up, ‘Samu. I’m perfectly calm.”

“You’re literally shaking, you idiot.”

Atsumu ignores him. The only thing on his mind right now is winning this game. He thinks about all those late nights spent practicing, and grits his teeth even harder.

“People who can’t hit my tosses are nothin’ but scrubs,” he says to himself, like a mantra.

The game goes on, and by the end of it, they’ve lost.

After the formalities are over, and the other team leaves to return to their own campus, Atsumu stalks up to a few of the team’s spikers. The coaches have left the gym, leaving the students to clean up the mess.

He gets straight to the point. “Is there something wrong with my tosses?”

One guy looks up, startled, and says, “Oh. No, not really.”

Atsumu’s eye twitches. His face becomes stone. “Then why couldn't any of you score any points?” he fumes, fingers curling into fists by his hips.

“H-huh?”

“My tosses are good. They’re _great,_ actually—so why couldn’t you guys score any points? Isn’t that your job?”

The kid he’s talking to turns bright red. “Hey, what the heck is your problem, huh?” he accuses. His friend tries to calm him down to no avail.

“Are you even _trying?_ ” Atsumu sneers, his blood turning hot. “We lost because of you guys!”

“Alright, knock it off.” Aran takes him by the shoulder and gently drags him away from the group. “Sorry about that, he’s just a little upset.”

“A _little—_ ”

“We’re goin’ home now, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu states, dragging him out of the gym by the shoulder. Atsumu glares daggers at his teammates, who glare right back.

What a bunch of good-for-nothing scrubs.

“Why are you so mad, ‘Tsumu?” his brother asks on their way home. Aran had to go ahead, so it's just the two of them.

“Because our team is _garbage_ , ‘Samu! We should’ve won today, but we lost by _eleven_ points!” Atsumu seethes, kicking at the loose pebbles on the road.

“Today was our first game as a team. And it was a _practice_ match,” Osamu points out.

“Still. I’m pissed off.”

His brother rolls his eyes. “‘Course you are. You’re always pissed off about everythin’ these days.”

Atsumu says nothing, just glares ahead and simmers in silence. Ma says it’s because he’s going through puberty, that it’s the hormones that are making him all moody and unbearable. Atsumu thinks he’ll hate being a teenager when October rolls around.

He goes straight to his room when they get home. His mother tries to greet him from the living room, but he rushes past her like she isn’t even there. Atsumu climbs the ladder to his bunk like a feral animal, burying his face in his pillow and screaming into it.

Losing eats away at his pride like a parasite.

Someone knocks at the door, and when Atsumu makes no sound to acknowledge it, the door creaks open. He keeps his face buried in the depth of his pillow.

A hand touches his calf. “Hi, Atsumu,” Ma says, her voice sweet like honey. “Osamu said you had a bad day at school.”

He says nothing. Doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

The hand around his calf tightens into a comforting hold. She begins to caress the area with her thumb. “Do you wanna tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Atsumu chooses to stay quiet. Ma doesn’t talk again for a few beats, but then the weight around his calf is gone and he hears the wooden ladder moan. The mattress of the top bunk dips beneath his mother’s weight. Atsumu can feel her trying to get comfortable, but the space is limited.

Then the hand is back on his calf again, thumb swiping over the area in soothing strokes. How she’s able to strip him of all his anger without saying anything is beyond him. Atsumu relaxes eventually, falling victim to Ma’s calming touch.

“Are ya feelin’ a little better, now?” she asks quietly, squeezing his calf.

Atsumu moves so that his cheek is pressed against the pillow instead. He makes sure to face the bedroom—he doesn’t want to look at her right now.

“I guess,” he mumbles, half his words muffled by the pillow.

“Do ya wanna talk about it? You can tell me anythin’, y’know.”

“I hate my team,” Atsumu growls, and he almost gets angry again, but Ma’s hand starts to caress his calf again, and the anger is zapped right out of him.

“Why?”

“Because they’re terrible at volleyball.”

“Are you tryin’ to help ‘em?”

“Huh?”

“Are you tryin’ to help ‘em get better?” Ma repeats.

Atsumu furrows his brows. “What do you mean, Ma?”

She sighs. “You can’t just work on yourself when you’re part of a team. Ya gotta help the entire group improve.”

“They can do that on their own,” Atsumu retorts.

“What, like sneak out in the middle of the night to toss a ball around?”

His heart leaps into his throat. Atsumu sits up so quickly the motion makes him dizzy. “You _know?_ ” he asks, dumbly.

Ma rolls her eyes. “You think I can sleep at night with you slammin’ that ball around?” she says.

“Oh.”

“My point is, bein’ part of a team means bein’ part of somethin’ bigger than just yourself. That counts for Osamu, too.”

Atsumu frowns. “What if they never get as good as me?”

“I’m sure they will. Or at least, _someone_ out there will.”

“What if I never find that someone?”

Ma’s eyes—eyes like freshly-brewed tea, the same eyes that sit on his own face—soften. “You will, Atsumu. And when you finally do, you’ll be the happiest person on earth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehe. i love writing the twins and their dynamic. tell me what you thought about the first chapter in the comments!


	2. Mercury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atsumu begins the next stage of his life as he enters high school.

_“I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.”_

— _Possession_ by A.S. Byatt

* * *

The next morning, Atsumu wakes with a start. Pain blooms in his shoulder, and his groggy self moves to grasp it. Blearily, he opens his eyes, and sees Osamu hovering above him, his expression twisted in annoyance.

“What?” Atsumu groans, rubbing his stinging shoulder. The scrub punched him. He turns around and tries to pull the covers over himself.

“We gotta go to school, you moron,” Osamu tuts, yanking the blanket away. Atsumu makes a rough noise in the back of his throat. Ma left him thinking all night—so much so that he’d barely gotten any sleep at all. Her words kept ringing around in his head, and they made him hopeful, and a little scared.

Atsumu rubs his eyes and sits up, ready to tell his brother off, but Osamu is already descending the latter. He huffs, but quickly follows behind him. They get ready together in silence, which is unusual for them. Normally, Atsumu would be talking Osamu’s ear off about anything and everything.

But today, he is quiet.

Osamu punches him again as they’re brushing their teeth in the bathroom. Atsumu winces, clutching his shoulder. He wants to yell at his brother, but there’s toothpaste in his mouth and he doesn’t feel like choking so early in the morning. So the older twin just glares over the handle of his toothbrush, and tries to punch Osamu back.

He dodges, then spits into the sink. “What’s wrong with you, huh? Why’re you bein’ weird?” Osamu asks, rinsing his mouth.

“I’m not bein’ weird,” Atsumu defends, after spitting into the sink as well. The leftover toothpaste tastes foul on his tongue. “You’re bein’ weird.”

Osamu puts his toothbrush away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His brows furrow when he glances at his brother. Atsumu pretends not to see it—the confusion and mild irritation painting Osamu’s face.

“Why’d ya get so angry yesterday, then?”

“‘Cuz our team sucks, ‘Samu.”

“So?”

Atsumu scoffs, leaving the bathroom. Osamu follows him.

“What do ya mean, ‘so?’ I can’t play volleyball with a bunch of novice scrubs,” he retorts.

They walk into the kitchen, where the breakfast Ma cooked for them is sitting on the table, neatly wrapped in plastic. Their bentos sit on the counter. She must’ve gone to work early.

“Are ya gonna quit?” Osamu asks when they sit down. He stuffs his face with eggs and bacon, practically inhaling the food.

Atsumu wrinkles his nose. “What? Of course not,” he says. “I’m gonna crack the whip on those idiots. That’s all.” He begins to eat, but the food doesn’t taste the same. It doesn’t taste like anything, really.

But he eats it anyway, because he needs the nutrients if he wants to play volleyball.

Breakfast is a quiet matter, with only the faint sounds of chopsticks and clay bowls clinking together to fill the silence. Atsumu loads the dishwasher before they go, and Osamu locks the door on the way out.

They walk the familiar path to school, which is only fifteen minutes away by foot. Early birds chirp in the distance. Atsumu stuffs his hands into his pockets, staring down at the dirt. The frustration from yesterday clings to him like cobwebs, light but persistent. A small part of him is mad, terribly so, but a voice that sounds like his mother tells him to get a grip.

Atsumu glares at the dirt, making an annoyed sound. Osamu sends an elbow into his ribs, which makes him falter and stumble to the side.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Atsumu yells, and the few people nearby turn their heads to scowl at him.

“You look like you’re about to explode,” Osamu says. “What did Ma tell you last night? Did she make ya mad?”

Atsumu rubs his sore ribs, and they continue walking. “No,” he scoffs. “And it’s none of yer business.”

Osamu makes a face, raising a fist to hit him with again, but Atsumu says, “Ma said I’d find someone who’s just as good as me at volleyball.”

His twin drops his arm. “Okay?”

Atsumu frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s stupid, but it kept me up all damn night. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about them.”

“Thinkin’ about who?”

“About—y’know!” Atsumu spluttered. “The person who’d give me a star.” Blood rushes to his face, coloring it scarlet. When did he get so embarrassing?

He expects Osamu to laugh, or make fun of him, or _something_ , but he just stays quiet, looking ahead. They can see the school in the distance.

After a moment, Atsumu spits, “Say somethin’, would ya?”

Osamu blinks, glancing at him. “You’re still caught up about that?”

“Huh?”

“Thought you’d be over that story by now. It’s a _children’s_ book, ‘Tsumu.”

Out of all the things his twin could say, Atsumu didn’t think it would be this. For some reason, it hurts. Makes his stomach clench and his chest twist. He bunches his shoulders up, defensive and embarrassed.

“Shut up,” Atsumu mumbles, feeling exhausted—like he’d just poured his heart out. And maybe he did, in some way. He wishes he hadn’t.

Atsumu doesn’t think about stars for a long time, after that.

* * *

The months go by, and before he knows it, Atsumu is turning thirteen. So is Osamu, but he pretends that today is just his day. Being a twin gets annoying, sometimes.

Ma cooks a bunch of food—a feast, really—and buys two cakes from a bakery nearby. Atsumu likes chocolate, while Osamu is more of a vanilla kind of guy. Their grandparents come over and they squeeze their shoulders and pinch their cheeks, cooing about how big they’d gotten.

Atsumu beams at the praise, while Osamu seems indifferent to it.

“Atsumu, do ya plan on playin’ at the Olympics one day?” his grandmother asks. The two of them are sitting on the couch, playing with cards. Atsumu doesn’t really understand the game, but he likes doing something with his hands.

Osamu, Ma, and Gramps are all in the kitchen, preparing for dinner and talking amongst themselves. Atsumu looks up from his deck and into his grandmother’s old eyes. They remind him of fog.

“I guess so,” he says, shrugging. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

Gran hums. “I think you’ll get there, someday. And when ya do, I’ll be pointin’ at the TV and braggin’ about how my grandson is an Olympian!” she crows, shoulders shaking as she laughs. Atsumu smiles at the way her eyes crinkle.

“‘Samu will be playin’ with me too, Gran,” he reminds her. It would be the two of them, playing side-by-side like they always do.

His grandmother blinks, licking her lips. She looks down at the cards in her wrinkly hands. “I wonder about that.”

Atsumu knits his brows together, confused at what she means by that. But then Gran starts talking about her garden at home, and how tending to it makes her back hurt. She tells Atsumu that he and his brother should come over sometime to help out, and he agrees.

The doorbell rings, and Atsumu stands to answer it. He looks through the peephole, and grins to himself when he sees who’s on the other side. He swings the door open, revealing Aran with two gifts in his arms.

The boy smiles. “Happy birthday, Atsumu,” he greets, and Atsumu welcomes him inside.

“Who’s at the door?” Ma calls from the kitchen, her voice getting closer as she makes her way to the entrance. “Oh, Aran! You’ve finally made it. We’re just about done with dinner, come in, honey.”

Aran leaves his shoes by the door and Atsumu thanks him for the presents, telling him to leave them in the living room somewhere. Gran shakes his hand and thanks him for coming. They all file into the kitchen, where the table is flooded with food. Atsumu eyes a platter of fatty tuna, grinning.

The table is set, and Ma seats herself at the head of it. Gramps sits on the other end, and Osamu sits with Aran. Gran insists Atsumu sits next to her.

Atsumu slaps his hands together and says, “Thank ya for the food!” Ma ruffles his hair, and they begin to eat. The table is loud with conversation, the twins stuffing their faces and telling a story at the same time. Ma seems so happy, she doesn’t even try to scold them for their poor manners. They talk about volleyball, school, and the future.

Aran rolls his eyes when Atsumu starts to complain about their team—Osamu just calls him an idiot.

“Y’know, our teammates don’t like ya at all, ‘Tsumu,” his twin says around a mouthful of rice.

“Like I care,” Atsumu replies, stabbing a piece of tuna with his chopsticks. “They’re just a bunch of low-level scrubs, anyway.”

“Be nice, Atsumu,” Ma says, giving him a sharp look. He deflates a little, sinking back into his chair.

Gran runs an old, wrinkled hand down Atsumu’s back. “He’s just bein’ his competitive self. Isn’t that right, Atsumu? Ya want to set a high standard for yer team so y’all can play at yer best.”

Gramps says, “You should just be captain at this point. You’re bossy ‘nough for it.”

Atsumu shrugs, taking a sip of water. Being captain has never crossed his mind before. He’s only ever been focused on being the best setter in the country.

“‘Tsumu would be the worst captain ever,” Osamu retorts.

“Shut up, ‘Samu. Like you’d be any better.”

“I would.”

“Ya wouldn’t.”

“No one listens to you.”

Atsumu scowls, “Well—”

“Who wants cake?” Ma cuts in, gathering her dirty plate and bringing it to the sink. Atsumu jumps up from his seat and begins to clear off the table with Osamu’s help. Their mother places the cakes on the table. One is covered in chocolate frosting, and the other in strawberry.

Atsumu looks down at the cake with chocolate frosting, where the words _Happy 13th Birthday, Atsumu!_ is piped on top in vanilla frosting. Ma must’ve gotten up early to get the cakes ordered. He glances over to peek at Osamu’s cake, nearly identical to his own. Their mother takes two candles and stabs one into each of the cakes. Everyone is huddled around the table with the twins in the center, standing in front of their own cake.

Gran shuts the lights off and the late evening sun pierces the room with its dim radiance. Gramps digs around in his pocket for a lighter. His hand shakes when he reaches over the table to light the candles, wizened hands rough and calloused from age. They sing happy birthday as the wicks start to burn, shadows of the flames dancing across Atsumu’s face. He thinks long and hard about his wish.

The singing stops, and they blow out their candles. Atsumu leans back and grins at his brother. Osamu is swatting the smoke away with his hand, and Ma is rummaging around the kitchen for plates and a knife.

“Do ya both wanna cut your own slices?” she asks, handing Atsumu the knife when he nods. He cuts himself a generous piece, plopping it down on the paper plate Ma gives him. Osamu takes the knife from his hand and cuts his own slice.

“Aran, which cake do ya want?” Osamu asks.

“Whichever.”

“Give him a piece of mine,” Atsumu insists. Osamu ignores him, cutting a slice of his cake to give to Aran, who thanks him.

“I’ll have some of yer cake, Atsumu,” Gran says, prying the knife away from Osamu’s hands. They migrate to the couch, where Ma puts on a movie that they both like. Atsumu shovels cake into his mouth, flanked by his grandmother and brother. As Osamu and Aran make small talk, Gran brushes her hand over Atsumu’s thigh.

He turns to face her. “Tell me what ya wished for,” she demands, a twinkle in her eye. She cuts away at her slice of cake, bringing a morsel to her mouth.

Atsumu swallows. “If I tell you, then it won’t come true,” he says.

Gran rolls her eyes. “C’mon now, Atsumu. You don’t really believe that, do ya?”

“Ma says it’s true.”

“Oh, please.” Gran waves a dismissive hand. “My daughter’s words aren’t the law. Won’t ya tell me? I won’t tell a soul.”

Atsumu purses his lips, contemplating. He sneaks a glance around the room, noticing that no one is looking at them. Then, he leans in. Gran does the same, lowering her ear so he can whisper into it. When Atsumu pulls back, his cheeks flushed scarlet, his grandmother is smiling so hard _his_ face starts to hurt. The wrinkles around her mouth and eyes are deeper than normal—more prominent. Atsumu wonders what that could mean.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispers lowly, looking down at his half-finished slice of cake.

“Not a soul,” Gran whispers back. She shifts to lean back into the couch to watch the movie. Atsumu tries to do the same, but his heart is racing inside his chest. His face is still hot. He’s grateful the lights are off, or else Osamu would’ve called him out for it. Or Ma.

About an hour later, when the end credits of the movie start to roll, Ma takes everyone’s plates. When she comes back from the kitchen, her eyes are sparkling.

“Are you boys ready to open yer gifts?” she asks, flicking the lightswitch on. Atsumu blinks from the sudden onslaught of light, but nods anyway. He sits closer to the edge of the couch, feeling all types of giddy.

Osamu must be feeling the same, because _his_ eyes are sparkling, too. Aran pushes himself off the couch and comes back with the gifts he’d brought earlier in his arms. He gives one to Atsumu. It feels heavy in his hands. He shakes it a little, just to see if he can get any idea of what it might be.

“Just open it,” Aran insists.

The twins share a look, and in a heartbeat, they’re tearing away at the colorful wrapping paper. Atsumu flips the pieces of cardboard over and peers inside the box. There’s a thick volleyball handbook, several bags of different candies that he likes, and a stuffed animal which, upon closer inspection, is a yellow fox. A card is wedged between the candy and the handbook.

Atsumu sets the box down to reach over to hug Aran, who only laughs at the rare display of affection.

“Thank you, Aran,” Atsumu says, grinning. Aran simply thumps a hand over his back and pulls away, only to be engulfed in yet another hug. Osamu thanks him too, and Atsumu takes the time to see what Aran gave his brother.

A Japanese cookbook with over fifty recipes, several bags of candy, and a matching stuffed fox with grey fur.

“Why foxes?” Atsumu asks.

Aran shrugs. “They remind me of you both. Sneaky and mischievous, y’know.”

“That only applies to ‘Tsumu, though,” Osamu says. Atsumu socks him in the shoulder.

The sound of a camera going off draws his attention. Ma stands a few paces away, her phone out as she grins at them. “Smile, you two!” she says, the camera flashing.

Neither of them smile.

“Dad, take over the camera for the minute,” Ma says before jogging out of the living room. Gramps stares down at the device as if it’s a relic from outer space.

“Give me a piece of that candy, would ya?” Gran says from next to him. Atsumu tears the bag open and drops a few pieces into her wrinkly palm. “It’ll take ‘im the next decade to figure out how that works. Not that I’m any different, though.”

They sit together, suckling on strawberry-flavored hard candy while Gran complains that the candy cuts the roof of her mouth, that the artificial strawberry flavor is too sweet and too fake. Atsumu can only shrug. He likes the candy well enough. It makes his lips sticky and his entire mouth taste like strawberries.

This close, Atsumu can smell Gran’s perfume. It’s soft like powder, the delicate floral scent tickling his nose.

He nudges her. “What’d ya get me for my birthday?”

“Manners, Atsumu,” Gran tuts. “You’ll see when ya open it.”

“When is that?”

“Whenever I give it to ya.”

Atsumu frowns, but Gran only pinches his cheek with her wrinkly fingers. “You’ll like it,” she says, her eyes sparkling as the ocean does beneath the moonlight. “I know ya will.”

Ma comes back with two boxes in her arms, wrapped in colorful paper and topped with bows. She passes one to Osamu, and the other to Atsumu. Gramps hands her her phone back, muttering something about the difficulty of modern technology. Atsumu can’t hear him over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

“Okay, Atsumu, Osamu. Go ‘head and open ‘em,” Ma says, grinning as she starts to record.

Atsumu wastes no time. He tears into the wrapping paper. The bow falls to the floor, forgotten. His heart stutters when he sees a familiar logo printed into the lid of the box.

“No way…” Atsumu smiles, and his face becomes the sun. His eyes mirror both the stars and the ocean at the same time. He holds up a new pair of athletic shoes, clean as fresh snow.

Atsumu looks over at his brother, who received a very similar gift. Osamu’s reaction is much like his own, his eyes popping out of his skull as he holds up a pair of tennis shoes—black, like charcoal—his jaw hanging open.

The twins scrabble over to their mother, tackling her in a hug. Ma laughs—the sound feels like a summer’s breeze—and the phone drops from her hand. She wraps her arms around the two of them, the warmth of her palm seeping through Atsumu’s shirt. He loves her.

“Do ya like ‘em? Took me forever to find the right ones—”

“ _Yes!_ ”

Ma laughs again, and the sound rings loud and clear; a bell. Atsumu hugs her tighter, burying his face in her chest. He feels the hard beat of her heart, the fingers in his hair.

At that moment he swears to one day play at the Olympics. Atsumu will make her proud.

* * *

Later into the evening, Aran’s parents come to pick him up. Atsumu and his brother hug him goodbye. Osamu tells Aran they’ll see him again at school. And then he leaves.

Ma yawns, trudging into the kitchen to make sure it’s thoroughly clean. As she disappears from view, Gran ushers the twins to sit with her on the sofa. Her lips are stained red from the candy.

Atsumu flanks her left, Osamu, to her right. Gramps reclines back on the loveseat just a few paces away from them, smiling, though he looks tired. Gran tells them to stay put before pulling herself up and shuffling over to the other room.

“Gramps, tell us what ya got us,” Osamu asks, once Gran has left the room.

“You’re about to find out, though.”

“I hate surprises,” Osamu replies.

Gramps scratches his nose. “Yer gran would kill me if I did. _She_ likes surprises.”

Osamu’s face pinches and he slumps back against the sofa.

“Shut up and be patient, ‘Samu. You’re bein’ annoying,” Atsumu tells him, glaring.

“Don’t tell me what to do, ‘Tsumu.”

“I’m older. You’re supposed to do what I tell ya.”

“Like I’d ever listen to some scrub.”

As Atsumu moves to drive a fist into his brother's shoulder, Gran comes shuffling back into the living room, two gifts in her hands. Osamu quickly sits up at the sight. Atsumu rolls his eyes.

“Osamu, open yours first,” Gran demands, handing him a wrapped box. She plops down in between them.

Osamu tears into it, gasping when he flips over the lid. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“What is it?” Atsumu leans over to get a better view. Osamu pulls out something with a clear case.

“A knife set!” he exclaims.

“A _what?_ ” Ma steps into the living room. Her eyes are narrowed and her lips are pressed together.

Gran scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s old enough to handle knives,” she says.

“Mom,” Ma starts.

“Atsumu, open yours next.” Gran turns to face him, placing the gift on his lap. The hefty weight of it presses down on Atsumu’s thighs. It must be something big. He tears through the wrapping paper and lifts the lid.

He peers over at his grandmother, confused. “What is this?”

Gran makes a motion with her hands. “Go on and take it out of the box,” she says.

Next to Atsumu, the sofa dips. Ma squeezes herself between him and the armrest, wiggling as she gets comfortable. Gramps is asleep on the loveseat, his soft snores filling the quiet of the living room.

“It looks like some kind of projector,” Ma says, wrapping an arm around Atsumu’s shoulders. He takes the strange device out of its secure packaging, a colorful orb jutting out of the base of the machine.

Osamu leans over to get a better look at it. “A projector?” he asks.

Atsumu gapes up at his grandmother. Gran gives him a gummy smile in return, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “When ya turn it on, it’ll mimic the galaxy. Ya need batteries for it, though,” she informs. Ma hums before pushing herself off the sofa. She rummages through the drawers of the coffee table, only stopping until she makes a triumphant sound.

She waves a fistful of batteries in the air. “Should we go test it out?”

The four of them migrate to the twins’ shared bedroom, leaving Gramps to sleep in the living room. Osamu offers Gran to take a seat on his desk chair, which she gladly accepts. Atsumu helps his mother set up the projector, though the most he does is watch as she puts the batteries in.

“Here,” Ma says, giving Atsumu the remote that comes with the machine. “You get to customize the lights however ya want.” She places the projector on the floor, and the white ceiling above them turns into a blank canvas.

“I think this’ll be an upgrade from yer little stickers ya got up there,” Gran says, pointing up to the cheap glow-in-the-dark stars plastered to the ceiling, which shine a radioactive green.

Atsumu turns the machine on, his eyes trained to the ceiling. The projector sputters to life. What was once a blank canvas is now a masterpiece as the entire galaxy unfolds before their eyes. Deep purple, dark blue, and fluorescent pink paints the ceiling in a sea of light, specks of white and space dust littered throughout the projection. Atsumu never would have thought that he would ever get to see the beauty of the universe right here, in his own bedroom.

He feasts his eyes on the moving image above him, breath caught in his throat. Atsumu doesn’t dare look away. He doesn’t see the reactions of anyone else in the room, too enraptured to let his gaze drift to anything but the ceiling. His body feels light and not like his own. His mind is at ease. Atsumu imagines that this is what it must feel like to float through space.

A hand spreads itself between his shoulder blades. “Atsumu, don’t forget to breathe,” Ma says, but her voice sounds far away—sounds lightyears away and Atsumu barely registers the words. He breathes, but keeps his eyes on the galaxy that his grandmother bought just for him, and he wonders how she knows him so well.

As Atsumu is drinking in the sight of the artificial stars projected onto the ceiling, he dreams about seeing this same view in person, with someone special.

* * *

In their first official volleyball tournament, Yako Junior High is eliminated in the quarterfinals. Their losing match had only lasted half an hour, and they didn’t win a single set. Atsumu stands on the side of the net that houses the losers, the failures, the defeated, drenched in sweat. On the other side of the net, on the side of the winners, the victors, the conquerors, the opposing team huddles around and bathes in their success, overjoyed. The entire room cheers for them.

Atsumu stares at the winning team, replaying each and every play. He thinks about what he could have done better. He thinks about what Osamu and Aran could have done better. A bead of sweat falls from his chin, followed by another, and another. His vision blurs, and his eyes sting.

He doesn’t see or hear Osamu walk up to him, covered in sweat. “We gotta leave now, ‘Tsumu,” he says, touching his brother’s arm. “C’mon. I don’t want the bus to leave without us.”

Atsumu lets Osamu drag him out of the gymnasium. He stares at the floor the whole time, doesn’t flinch when his brother smacks a towel over his sweaty head and shoves a waterbottle into his chest. He drinks, though it’s nothing but a mechanical act. The cold water goes down his throat, but Atsumu still feels like he’s on fire.

As they leave the building, Atsumu takes one last look over his shoulder at the winning team, crowded together in the hallway, joyous smiles on their flushed and sweaty faces. He looks away because the sight makes his chest ache. Atsumu curls his fingers into fists. They step outside, the fall breeze doing little to soothe the fire burning in his stomach.

The bus ride back to Hyogo is quiet, save for the gentle rumble of the bus. Atsumu sits by the window, watching the world go by. Osamu presses their knees together in a subtle act of comfort, but says nothing. In his pocket, Atsumu’s phone buzzes. He reckons it must be Ma texting him, eager to know the outcome of the match.

He turns his ringer off, and the buzzing stops. It is quiet again.

Atsumu presses his head against the window and closes his eyes.

* * *

When they get home that evening, Ma swings the front door open with an irritated look. Neither of them answered her calls or texts. She must’ve been worried. Whatever lecture she was going to give them dies in her throat, and her face falls. Her shoulders sag, and she ushers them inside the house as if they were frightened animals.

Ma tells them to stay put as she runs them a bath. She never lets either of them use her bathroom, but tonight is an exception. She scampers down to the hallway bathroom to get the water running, then disappears inside her room to get the other tub ready.

As he waits for Ma to come back, Atsumu becomes stone. He hardly breathes. He looks at the edge of the livingroom carpet without actually looking at it. Osamu is much the same, though he’s less tense, and Atsumu can feel his eyes on him, which the older twin dutifully ignores.

Ma comes back into the livingroom and says, too full of forced humor, “Alright, both of ya pick a bathroom. Ya reek of sweat.” She seems to regret her words the moment they spill from her lips, but Atsumu only nods and chooses the hallway bathroom that he and Osamu share. He walks into the steam and shuts the door behind him.

Glancing at the tub, he sees the bubbles that threaten to spill out. Ma must’ve put some kind of mixture inside; it smells like warm vanilla and fresh laundry. Atsumu strips himself of his sweaty clothes, wincing when they stick to his body. He immerses himself in the bath, and the warmth of it nearly puts him to sleep.

He isn’t sure how long he stays in there until he hears a soft rap of knuckles against the bathroom door, along with Ma’s voice. The water has gotten cold. “Atsumu? You okay in there? It’s almost been an hour,” is what comes through the thin barrier that separates himself from his mother. Atsumu almost doesn’t answer, but he knows that if he doesn’t, Ma will break the door down, and he would hate to add her seeing him naked to his list of things that made today terrible.

“Yeah,” he calls out, his voice cracking on the word. “I’ll be out soon.”

Atsumu feels her hesitate before she sighs, “Okay,” and her footsteps grow distant as she leaves.

He dips his head underwater, disappearing into the bubbles and cold water, allowing the depth of it to drown out any white noise that rings in his ears.

When he emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he nearly trips on the folded pajamas that someone left out in front of the door. Atsumu stares down at the pile before finally scooping it up in his arms and getting dressed in the bathroom.

His hair is still dripping wet when he shuffles into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of green tea and honey. Osamu is sitting at the island, a steaming cup of tea placed in front of him. Ma is at one of the counters, pouring a spoonful of honey into another cup. She notices Atsumu standing by the threshold and beckons him to sit down.

Atsumu slides into the chair next to his brother, who hasn’t touched his drink. He only stares down at it, his hands in his lap. Ma places the cup of tea she was making in front of Atsumu, who takes it into his hands but doesn’t bring it to his lips.

“Ya didn’t dry yer hair right. You’ll get sick if it stays wet—I keep tellin’ you that,” she says, leaning over the island. Her stare burns right through the both of them. Atsumu notes, briefly, that her eyes are that same shade as the green tea mixed with honey and lemon.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Was it fun?” Ma asks.

“‘Course it wasn’t,” Osamu mutters. He moves to finally sip at his tea. “We lost. Badly.”

Atsumu squeezes the cup in his hands. “I feel like shit,” he says, through clenched teeth.

Ma doesn’t react to the curse word leaving his mouth. Instead, she only hums, and reaches over the counter to place her hand on top of his. Atsumu doesn’t realize his hand is shaking until Ma’s hand comes to hold it still. She brushes her thumb over the back of his hand, coaxing him to put down the cup before he breaks it.

“Be calm, Atsumu. There will be countless other games to play in the future,” she says.

Beside him, Osamu takes another sip of the tea. “Losing still feels bad, though,” he comments quietly. 

Ma frowns, taking his hand in her free one. “Well, it’s not exactly meant to feel good. But it’s alright. Losin’ is part of the process. I know it sucks, but you gotta lose to win, sometimes.”

“That makes no sense,” Atsumu scoffs.

“Drink yer tea,” she says. He does, and it burns as it goes down. But he can feel it working to soothe his aching muscles, his aching chest. “I wasn’t there to see it for myself, but I know ya both played well. Played with everythin’ ya got, ‘cause that’s the type of kids ya both are. And I know y’all know that this one loss isn’t the end of the world.”

“It feels like it is,” Osamu says.

Ma takes his empty cup and walks to the counter to make him another one. “It might feel like that for a little bit, but it won’t last forever. I promise.

“Atsumu, do ya want some more tea?”

Atsumu glances at his half-finished cup. “No,” he says. Ma turns around and refills it anyway, telling him to drink all of it. He doesn’t fight her on it, gulps it down even though it feels like swallowing lava.

She watches them sip at their tea for a bit before saying, with as much love and affection that she can pour into her words, “I’m proud of you both, even if ya aren’t proud of yourselves.” And that becomes the tipping point, the crack in the dam, the last nail on the head. Tears spill like rain down Atsumu’s face. His shoulders shake, and he cries so hard he thinks he might throw up. He hates crying in front of his brother, but he can’t help it, right now.

Ma strides over to the other side of the island and takes both of them in her arms. Through his own tears, Atsumu can see the wetness of Osamu’s eyes, the subtle redness beneath them. Atsumu has always been the bigger crier.

Lips press into his hair. “It’s alright,” Ma murmurs softly, holding them like they’re babies again. “It’s just one loss. It’s alright.”

* * *

The day they come back to practice, it feels like nothing has changed. Atsumu was secretly hoping for a sudden wave of inspiration and some kind of life-changing transformation of himself, but it never came. He just feels hollow, mostly.

He doesn’t let it show, though. The perpetual ache in his chest that he thinks might never go away, the pit in his stomach that weighs ten tons. Osamu gives him a wary glance whenever he thinks Atsumu isn’t looking, but of course he is. He wishes Osamu would cut it out and leave him alone. He doesn’t want his brother’s pity.

But the third time Atsumu messes up setting the ball, the third time in a row, Osamu asks for a time-out and drags Atsumu to the other side of the gymnasium.

He punches him. “What’s wrong with you?” Osamu whisper-yells. “You’re actin’ like ya got kicked in the shin. It’s annoyin’.”

Atsumu scowls and shoves Osamu away from him, creating space between them. He staggers back a few steps and scowls back. “Shut up. I’m fine. You’re always makin’ a big deal out of nothing.”

“I know how you are when you’re upset, idiot. I’m yer brother, if ya haven’t noticed. Now tell me what the hell’s been botherin’ ya. Is it the quarterfinals?”

Atsumu grits his teeth and grinds them into dust. “No,” he snaps, and his voice becomes ice. “Shut up, ‘Samu. Leave me alone.”

“It is, isn’t it? Why’re you still caught up about that, huh?” Osamy says, ignoring him. “It’s in the past, now. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“To _you_.”

“Huh?”

Atsumu swallows the knot in his throat and says, very clearly, “It doesn’t matter to _you_ , because you don’t _care_ about volleyball!” His voice rises like the tide.

Heads turn to look their way, but he doesn’t care, and neither does Osamu, it seems.

“The hell?” Osamu glowers. “Of course I care! Ya think I was feelin’ all peachy when we lost, huh? Ya think I would cry over somethin’ I didn’t care about, you dumb idiot?” He jabs a finger into Atsumu’s chest as he yells, his face twisting into something ugly and angry and hurt.

Atsumu smacks the hand away and steps forward into Osamu’s space, grabbing the collar of his shirt and jersey. He shakes him, violently, as he erupts, spit flying from his mouth as he yells and shouts and _explodes_. They lost because Atsumu wasn’t good enough. His sets were sloppy at most and his serves were mediocre and shaky. He loves to pride himself in his volleyball skills, but in reality, they are only subpar.

And Atsumu has no idea how to tell his brother this—has no idea how to admit that it was _his fault that they lost_ , because it makes him feel like the worst person on the planet.

He screams something he can’t hear over the violent roar of his heartbeat in his ears, and it makes Osamu go still. His face falls, body going limp. Atsumu freezes up at the look on his brother’s face, his anger extinguished.

The coaches pull them apart and tells them both to calm down or they’ll be sent home for the day. Atsumu can hardly see the man grasping his shoulders, who’s giving him some kind of lecture that he can’t care less about. He looks past the coach’s shoulder at Osamu with his head down. Atsumu can’t see the expression on his face. He doesn’t think he wants to.

“Are you listening to me, Miya?”

He isn’t. “Yeah, I hear you,” he says.

Coach sighs, squeezing his shoulders. “You’re a good player. A great setter. I’d hate to bench you.”

That snaps him out of his daze. “W-what?” Atsumu stammers.

“I can’t let someone who can’t control themselves be on the starting line-up. It doesn’t look good, and it certainly won’t be good for the team,” Coach says.

Atsumu only stares at him. That’s the only thing he _can_ do.

“You should go home for today. Both of you.” Then he pulls away, smacking a hand down on Atsumu’s shoulder as he does so. “Cool your head, and come back tomorrow.”

The moment the words leave the coach’s mouth, he feels the entire world cave in on him.

Ma doesn’t say a word when the twins come home early from practice. She must have sensed the tension radiating off of them, because she doesn’t pry, doesn’t push them to tell her anything. Ma sends them off to their rooms, along with the promise that dinner will be ready in an hour or so.

And it’s days like this where Atsumu wishes he didn’t have to share a room with his brother. It feels like he can’t ever escape Osamu. It’s quiet in their little room, as neither of them move to strike any sort of conversation. Atsumu looks up at the ceiling, and thinks.

After a while, he scoots over to the edge of his bunk and leans himself over the rail so that his head hangs into Osamu’s bunk. “Hey, ‘Samu,” Atsumu whispers, in case he might be asleep.

He doesn’t get a response, but Osamu’s face pinches as he turns over to face the wall.

Atsumu tries again. “I’m talkin’ to you, ‘Samu. Answer me, would ya?”

Silence.

He sighs, frowning, before shuffling over to descend the ladder.

“Don’t you dare.”

Atsumu freezes. “I’m comin’ down there whether ya want me to or not,” he says, determined.

“I don’t wanna see your stupid face.”

“That’s too bad.” He makes his way down the ladder and tries to crawl into Osamu’s bed.

“Get off,” Osamu fumes, kicking at him. “Are you an idiot? I said I didn’t wanna look at you.”

Atsumu swats his brother’s legs away. “And I said that’s too damn bad!” he hisses.

Osamu growls and raises the blanket over his head, curling into himself and getting as close to the wall as possible. Atsumu huffs and sits back against the headboard, crossing his arms. He fought his way down here, but now that he’s done that, he has no idea what to do next. He thought an idea might come to him miraculously, but Atsumu’s drawing a blank.

He bites his lip, trying to think of what to say. Osamu is silent beside him, hardly moving. Atsumu scratches his head and swallows his pride.

“I’m sorry.”

Silence.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I’m sorry, ‘Samu. I just got angry, is all. I swear, ya didn’t do anything to tick me off. It was all me. I’m sorry. You were just tryin’ to help me.”

A moment passes, then two, then three. Osamu says nothing the entire time, and Atsumu is ready to retreat back to his own bunk. His face colors scarlet, skin prickling with embarrassment. He moves to climb the ladder, but he feels a sudden movement next to him that gives him a sliver of hope.

“Y’know, I can’t stand you sometimes. You’re the worst brother ever. The scrub of all scrubs,” Osamu says quietly, still facing the wall. He pulls the blanket off his head and sends Atsumu a glare over his shoulder. In the low lighting of the room, Atsumu sees how the edges of his eyes are slightly red and swollen.

His heart twists and aches and now he’s certain that he must be the worst person on the planet.

“I’m so sorry, ‘Samu. I really am. I didn’t mean to make ya cry. I take everything I said back. All of it,” Atsumu blabbers, weak to his brother’s tears. Osamu rarely cried—even less so tears of grief.

Osamu makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat, but turns to face Atsumu all the same. He sits up the best he can without hitting his head. “I _do_ care about volleyball,” he says.

Atsumu nods, almost desperately. “Yeah, I know ya do. I was just sayin’ stupid stuff—anything that came to mind, y’know?”

His brother looks at him, and for the first time in his life Atsumu appreciates the difference in their eye color. While he has his mother’s warm eyes—eyes the color of tea—Osamu’s are pools of sleet and gunmetal blue. No one would notice this slight difference that sets the twin’s apart unless they got close enough.

“But I think ya care a little more about volleyball than I do, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu admits, looking away.

Atsumu blinks, startled. “What? What do ya mean, ‘Samu?”

His face pinches like he swallowed something sour. “You practice more and harder than I do. You read through that volleyball handbook at least twice every week. You even started askin’ Ma to make you foods that would help build your muscles.”

“So?”

Osamu glares at him, though it lacks heat. “ _So_ , I’m sayin’ ya care more about it than I do. I like winning, but you’re starvin’ for it, ‘Tsumu,” he finishes.

Atsumu licks his dry lips and looks down at his lap, at a loss of what to say. Maybe a small part of him always knew that Osamu doesn’t share the same amount of passion as he does when it comes to volleyball. Maybe he knew, but didn’t want to admit it.

“Are ya still gonna play with me?” Atsumu says quietly, wringing his hands together. He can’t imagine playing on a court where Osamu isn’t there to stand with him.

Osamu snorts, punching his shoulder lightly. “‘Course I am, stupid. Just...maybe not at the Olympics. Sorry. I know it’s yer dream.”

Atsumu raises his head to look his brother in the eye. Warm tea on gunmetal blue.

He smiles, and tells his brother that that’s more than enough.

* * *

The Miya twins start to make themselves known as they continue to play volleyball throughout junior high. They’ve had their share of losses and triumphs, their highs and lows. Though he would never tell them, Atsumu is proud of how far the team has come. It is his last year of junior high, just a few weeks until graduation, and Yako Junior High VBC is no longer composed of the little runts with no presence.

They aren’t the strongest in Hyogo Prefecture, but they definitely aren’t the weakest. Rival schools click their tongues and clench their fists whenever Yako VBC steps onto the court. Atsumu’s serves have improved by a great deal. He hesitates less when he sets the ball, and he gets along a little better with the rest of his team. He isn’t friends with them—doesn’t really want to be—but he respects them enough, as teammates.

They’re playing some video game in the living room one afternoon when Osamu says, out of nowhere, “‘Tsumu, we should dye our hair.”

Atsumu presses the wrong button on the controller he’s holding, and Osamu’s character gains the upper hand. A large _KO_ flashes on the screen, signaling the end of the fight, with Osamu as the winner. Any other time, he would’ve been pissed, but—

“Did I hear ya right?” Atsumu stammers, giving his brother a bewildered look.

Osamu shrugs. “We’ll be high schoolers next year, so. I wanna look cool.”

“Dyin’ our hair, though? Ma will kill us.”

“No, she won’t. I already asked her, and she said it’s fine, ‘cause we’re fifteen now.”

Atsumu sneers. “You little scrub. Why’d ya tell Ma before tellin’ me?”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “‘Cause you’re annoyin’, ‘Tsumu. You always make a big deal outta nothin’,” he says, putting the controller down. “So? Do ya wanna do it with me, or not?”

The older of the two scoffs and tosses his controller on the coffee table. “Fine. But I’m dyin’ my shit blond, ‘cause that’s what’s cool these days,” Atsumu decides.

“No it isn’t,” Osamu says, voice flat. “Piss yellow isn’t cool at all, ‘Tsumu.”

“I never said anythin’ about dyin’ it piss yellow, you piece of shit!”

“It was implied. You’re gonna look like one of those slimy city slicker bastards.”

Atsumu pushes himself off the couch, scoffing. He walks to the kitchen. “When’s Ma comin’ home?” he asks as he pours himself some water.

He hears Osamu turn the TV off. “In like, two hours,” his brother replies, joining him in the kitchen.

Atsumu grins. “The nearest convenience store is a ten minute walk.”

Osamu blinks his hooded eyes, giving him a lazy kind of look. “Fine. But you’re payin’.”

“It was _yer_ suggestion!”

* * *

Atsumu stands before a shelf full of different types of hair dye. His eyes jump from product to product. “They all look the same,” he admits, scratching his cheek. “Which ones are we supposed to get?”

Osamu stands next to him, scanning the boxes. “Dunno. Whichever looks the flashiest, I guess,” he replies.

“I’m callin’ Ma.” Atsumu dials her number, hoping she isn’t so busy that she can’t pick up. The phone rings once, twice, three times, before she answers.

Her voice comes through the receiver. “Atsumu? What’s wrong?” she asks, busy office noises coming through the background.

“Um,” Atsumu stammers, “is this a bad time?”

“No, hold on, let me just—” He hears shuffling and the audio on her end becomes muffled. “Okay, talk.”

“‘Samu and I are buyin’ hair dye, but we don’t know what to buy.”

“Which store are y’all at?”

“Uh, the one just down the street. Near the vending machine we like,” Atsumu replies, and Osamu mutters to hurry it up.

Ma hums, then says, “Well, what color are ya plannin’ on dyin’ it?” Atsumu tells her he wants to go blond, and Osamu grabs the phone and says he wants to go gray.

“Are you an old man?” Atsumu sneers, and his brother socks him in the arm.

She tells them to buy a certain brand and something called toner. It takes them some time to find everything, but they settle on ash gray and golden yellow.

“I’ll be home soon. Don’t try to dye yer hair by yourselves—I’ll never let y’all hear the end of it, ya hear me?” Ma orders, raising her voice.

“Yeah, we hear you. Everyone in the store can hear you,” Atsumu groans as they start to make their way to the check-out area.

“Good. I’ll see ya soon. Love ya both.” The line goes dead, and Atsumu stuffs his phone back inside his pocket.

Osamu bumps shoulders with them. “Hey, you’re still payin’ for all of this, right?” he asks.

“Like hell I am!” Atsumu hisses.

“I forgot my wallet at the house.”

“You’re jokin’.”

“Do I look like I am?” Osamu gives him a withered stare.

Atsumu ends up paying. “You owe me,” he says, when they leave the store.

“Sure I do.”

A little more than an hour later, and the twins find themselves sitting in their shared bathroom, heads swaddled in plastic wrap. Ma came home and went to work quickly, telling them to get their asses inside the bathroom so she could get started. She seemed more excited about this than either of them.

Their mother ended up doing most of the work, cutting their hair the way they requested before lathering it with product and wrapping it up in plastic. She shaved the underside of their heads so that most of it was long on top, and the top would be the part getting dyed.

“My scalp burns,” Atsumu whines, glaring at himself in the mirror.

“There’s literal bleach in our hair, dumbass,” Osamu retorts, scrolling through his phone. “Ma said to wait ten more minutes before we wash it out.”

“What if this stuff makes us go bald instead?” Atsumu ponders. “You’d look ugly bald, ‘Samu. Ya just don’t have the head shape for it.”

“Shut the hell up, you moron. You’re the one with the lumpy head. That’s why Ma almost gave you up for adoption when we were born.”

“I should kill ya. I really should.”

“You’d die without me, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu doesn’t want to admit how true those words are. He only rolls his eyes and shrugs it off, but in truth, he really does believe he’d be dead with Osamu. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if anything bad happened to him. Atsumu squeezes his eyes and tries to swat the bad thoughts away.

“The hell are you doin’? Tryin’ to take a shit?” Osamu blurts, making the older twin open his eyes.

“Fuck you. I was just tryin’ to make you explode with my mind. I wish it worked,” Atsumu says, sneering.

Osamu opens his mouth to reply with some sneaky remark, but the bathroom door swings open and Ma pokes her head inside. “You both can wash it out now. Make sure it doesn’t get into yer eyes, alright?"

Atsumu turns on the shower and leans over the edge of the tub, picking at the edges of the plastic wrap covering his hair. He leaves his head under the running water, squeezing his eyes as hard as he can. Ma gives him an old towel to dry his hair with, barking at him to make room for Osamu to rinse his hair out, too.

Atsumu turns to look into the mirror. What was once a dark brown is now a golden yellow.

“Ya look like a chocolate-dipped banana, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu says, laughing as he unwraps his hair.

His face turns red. “Shut up, ‘Samu! It looks cool.”

Ma runs her hands through the newly dyed hair, still damp from the water. “Hmm, we can put toner in it to make ya look like an actual blond,” she suggests.

Atsumu scowls, looking hard at his reflection. _He_ likes the color.

“It’s fine. I like this shade of yellow, anyway,” he says, reaching up to feel his hair.

Ma rummages through the drawers and pulls out a hair dryer. She plugs it in and urges Atsumu to turn around so she can dry his hair for him. The shower stops running, and Ma tells Osamu to dry his hair with a towel first before she blow dries it for him.

When the entire ordeal is finally finished, Ma puts a hand on each of their shoulders. “Well,” she says, as they stare into the mirror, “what do you boys think?”

The ash gray color suits Osamu well—it matches the gunmetal blue of his eyes. Atsumu says, “You look like an old man, Peepaw.”

“And you look like you wash your hair with dog piss,” Osamu retorts immediately, to which Ma pinches his ear for.

“I think ya both look handsome. My handsome little boys,” she coos, trying to plant a kiss on their cheeks. They groan and wiggle out of her hold. Atsumu tells her they aren’t so little, anymore. 

Ma sighs. “I know. I think I know that more than anyone.”

* * *

Inarizaki High is the name of their high school, and one of the feeder schools of Yako Junior High. Like their previous school, Inarizaki is represented by foxes as well.

“It could be worse.”

“How could it get any worse than _this_?”

It is the morning of their first day of high school, and Atsumu is trying on the new uniform for the first time. Black pants, white shirt, brown blazer, and a maroon tie. It clashes horribly with his hair. Maybe he should’ve dyed it a more neutral color like Osamu’s.

“You’re just bein’ dramatic,” Osamu says, fixing his hair in his dresser’s mirror. He makes his way toward the door. “C’mon, Ma will skin us alive if we’re late our first day.”

They leave their bedroom and make their way down to the kitchen, where Ma is having a cup of coffee. “Mornin’,” she greets, then points to the counter where their bentos are waiting. “You’re gonna have to eat breakfast on yer way there. I told ya both to wake up early.”

Atsumu snatches his bento off the counter and shrugs his school bag on. “Sorry, Ma. I was finishing the summer assignment,” he explains.

“Last minute, like always,” Osamu adds, packing his bento away in his bag. “Thanks for the food, Ma. We’ll see ya later.”

They quickly scarf down the egg sandwiches Ma made for them on their walk to school. Inarizaki is a little more of a walk compared to Yako Junior High, but Atsumu reckons they’ll make it in time if they hurry.

“So,” Osamu starts, finishing up the last morsel of his sandwich. “Are ya ready to play volleyball again?”

“Obviously,” Atsumu replies. “I was researchin’ Inarizaki’s volleyball club, and apparently they’re pretty good.”

“I know that already, ‘cause Aran said they were.”

“Well, I just wanted to make sure. He said the same thing about Yako, and ya know how that turned out.”

Osamu snorts. “You just hate people, ‘Tsumu. You’re never gonna get a girlfriend like that,” he says.

“Piss off, old man. I’m plenty likeable. And I’m handsome, too,” Atsumu retorts, smirking. “I won’t have a single problem with gettin’ a girl, but you? Good luck, ‘Samu.”

“Who said I’d want a girl in the first place?” Osamu says quietly, seemingly to himself.

Atsumu glances at his brother, but doesn’t comment on it.

They reach the gates of Inarizaki.

* * *

“What’s your name?”

“Miya Atsumu.”

“What position did you play in junior high?”

“I played setter.”

The boy whose name he’s already forgotten nods, looking satisfied. His hair is weird, black at the tips but white everywhere else. His eyes are calm, but sharp. A second year, like Aran.

“And what about you?” the boy says, looking at Osamu. “What’s your name?”

“Miya Osamu. I played wing spiker in junior high,” Osamu says.

The boy nods again. “Aran told me you both were good on the court. I’ve heard a lot about ya.”

Atsumu asks, unimpressed, “What was yer name again? Kiba?”

“Kita Shinsuke. I’m a wing spiker, too,” Kita replies. “I look forward to workin’ with the two of ya.” He dips his head slightly before stalking off, most likely to welcome the rest of the first-years.

“That guy’s kind of weird. You sure he’s friends with Aran?” Atsumu asks.

“That's what Aran said,” Osamu says. “Apparently, he isn’t even a regular.”

Atsumu scoffs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Seriously? What’s he doin’ then, goin’ around like he owns the place?”

“Dunno. He doesn’t look like much, though.”

“I don’t understand why coaches even bother keepin’ bench boys,” Atsumu mutters. “They’re just there to sit and watch. They might as well not even be part of the team.”

Osamu hums in quiet agreement, eyes scanning the gym and the people in it. A boy with short-cropped, sandy blond hair comes walking their way.

“Yo,” the boy greets when he reaches the twins, “you both are first-years, right?”

Atsumu says, “Yeah, we are.”

The boy sticks out his hand. “Ginjima Hitoshi. I’m a first-year, too. I’m an outside hitter.” The twins reluctantly shake Ginjima’s hand.

“Are ya angry? Ya look angry,” Osamu says, when he pulls his hand back.

“Huh? Why the hell would I be angry?” Ginjima grunts, giving them a withered look.

Atsumu takes a step back, in case the guy starts swinging at them for no reason.

“Gin, are you bullying our new teammates already?”

A boy with dark hair and narrow eyes comes up to stand besides Ginjima, slouched over with his hands in his pockets. The newcomer seems to be observing the twins, looking them up and down.

“Sorry about him,” he says. “He’s just an idiot with a mean face.”

“Don’t tell ‘em things like that, Suna!”

Osamu steps forward. “Your name is Suna, then?” he asks.

Suna blinks, his expression bored. “Suna Rintarou. I’m a first-year middle blocker.”

Atsumu curls his lip at the way Osamu is looking at this Suna kid, but he decides to confront him about it later. He sticks out his hand. “Miya Atsumu. I’m a setter. This scrub over here is my idiot brother,” he greets. Suna takes it lazily, nodding.

“Miya Osamu,” Osamu says, moving to shake the newcomer’s hand. Atsumu notices him staring at Suna for a little too long. “I’m a wing spiker.”

“It’s nice to see y’all getting friendly with each other,” Aran begins, joining the crowd, “but we’ve gotta start practice now. That’s what we all came here to do, right?”

Atsumu smirks. Aran’s gotten a little taller over the break. “Well, aren’t you bein’ a good role model? I’m honored to be yer underclassman, Aran,” he teases, which only earns him an eyeroll.

The group disperses, but he catches Osamu staring at Suna’s back as the boy is walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sakusa will finally make an appearance next chapter i swear
> 
> also this isn't beta read so sorry for any grammatical errors lol
> 
> hope you like it :^)


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